


Putting out fires with gasoline

by glitchvoice



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Background Les Amis de l'ABC, M/M, Revolution
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-01
Updated: 2013-10-04
Packaged: 2017-12-28 03:37:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/987206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glitchvoice/pseuds/glitchvoice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Paris, 2013. Enjolras is the closest thing you'll get to a real-life revolutionary, and Grantaire is following him for all the wrong reasons.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> “The people in power will not disappear voluntarily; giving flowers to the cops just isn’t going to work. This thinking is fostered by the establishment; they like nothing better than love and nonviolence. The only way I like to see cops given flowers is in a flower pot from a high window.” -- William S. Burroughs

It’s not as if Grantaire _tries_ to be a public relations disaster.

Six weeks ago, he wasn’t a public relations _anything_. Until then, the only person who ever paid attention to his bullshit was Enjolras, who primarily used him as a rhetorical punching bag anyway.

Unfortunately, ever since reporters started showing up at ABC headquarters, Grantaire has developed some kind of sixth sense for fucking up in front of them. For example, last week he accidentally told someone that he was Enjolras’ official portrait artist. Obviously he’d been joking. _Obviously_. But they decided he must be for real, and proceeded to churn out a blog post about how Enjolras was launching a cult of personality.

Which is why Courfeyrac has already given Grantaire strict instructions not to talk to any of the journalists that lurk around Enjolras like so many vultures. A plan that already backfired when someone overheard Grantaire joking about being censored, and assumed he was being serious. The next day, the quote found its way into a paragraph about Enjolras’ “steely grip” on the ABC’s public image.

If only. So far, Enjolras’ biggest concession to public image is agreeing to wear a button-down shirt during official press conferences.

At least half of Grantaire's problems in life stem from people taking him too seriously. The other half are mostly caused by Enjolras, alcohol, or some combination of the two.

‘So, are you one of the regulars?’

Grantaire leans back in his chair, trying not to roll his eyes. _Do you come here often?_ The speaker is a middle-aged woman, dressed in a way that suggests she’s hoping to casually blend into her surroundings. Reporter, reporter, definitely a reporter.

‘More like one of the hangers-on,’ he says, but the woman sits down beside him anyway. ‘If you want some coherently publishable content, I recommend trying Combeferre instead.’

‘I already did,’ she says mildly. So, not actually attempting to be covert, then. That’s something. ‘I thought it might be nice to sit in the cheap seats for a while.’

Burn. ‘You got me.’ Back row of the room; wearing a hat because he hasn’t washed his hair in four days; drinking spiked coffee out of an insulated Starbucks travel mug. (He’d actually got the cup from Freecycle, but he carries it around because the logo annoys Enjolras.) But yeah: he's in the cheap seats, all right.

‘Combeferre told me you’ve been here since the beginning,’ she says. ‘A loyalist?’

Grantaire shrugs. The meeting isn’t going to ramp up for another few minutes, but he doesn’t particularly feel like spending that time providing someone with punchy soundbites. ‘I’m here, aren’t I?’

He doesn’t understand why she isn’t pestering any of the others. Courfeyrac has been messing around on his laptop for the past half-hour, Jehan is already sitting at the main conference table, and there are various volunteers milling around as usual. Even the main attraction is here, holding court in one corner of the Musain that's still pretending to be a normal coffee shop. He’s always happy to talk to anyone who’ll stand still long enough to listen.

Well, maybe not happy, as such. But... tolerant.

The funniest thing about this whole situation is that Enjolras hates the attention. Really, really _hates it_. He’s the living embodiment of “be careful what you wish for”: he wanted people to listen to him, and now they’re listening. Mostly through the medium of Tumblr photo galleries of his disgustingly symmetrical face, with a short quote posted underneath. Or half-page articles in mid-tier newspapers, featuring minor but frustrating punctuation errors. But, stubborn as a mule, Enjolras keeps talking in the hopes that at some point, the underlying message will sink in.

The patron saint of doomed quixoticism, golden-haloed and currently nibbling on a vegan muffin while one of the interns looks on in awe.

Grantaire sympathises with the intern.

A couple of weeks ago, one of the local tabloids had run a story that talked about Enjolras’ “expression of gritty resolve”, and Grantaire had laughed and laughed. That wasn’t resolve; it was the expression Enjolras made when Combeferre had ordered him not to start a fight with any more photographers.

It isn’t just that Enjolras is the leader. He never actually volunteered to do all the press shit, but by process of elimination, he’s really the only choice. Cosette is charming and photogenic, but not remotely tough enough to deal with harsh questioning. Jehan is a walking stereotype of long-haired hippie political activists. Eponine hates everybody, particularly reporters. Bahorel and Feuilly are both Algerian, meaning that they’d have to spend half the time combating racist bullshit. Courfeyrac is an incorrigible flirt, Combeferre can’t string a sentence together in front of a camera, Marius looks like a newborn foal, and Joly has a serious grown-up job.

Grantaire, for a myriad of obvious reasons, was never even in the running.

That leaves Enjolras, who is charismatic, willing to talk your ear off at a moment’s notice, and only occasionally lets slip the fact that he’d happily turn to physical violence if the need arose. Practically perfect in every way.

‘So, why do you follow him?’

Grantaire smiles, without much warmth. ‘I’m not so much a follower as... ABC-adjacent. I never get arrested for the approved reasons,’ he adds mournfully.

She doesn’t look impressed.

He glances over to where Enjolras is now giving one of the younger volunteers either a pep talk, a lecture on the power of the proletariat, or his coffee order. Whichever it is, he’s doing that thing where he stares into your eyes like the snake from The Jungle Book, and you find yourself forgetting that the rest of the universe even exists. Or at least, that’s always been Grantaire’s experience of The Look.

‘I don’t know,’ he says. ‘Look at him.’

‘I have done,’ says the reporter. ‘He’s a very attractive individual.’

Grantaire snorts. As if he didn't already know. But it's so goddamn difficult to explain Apollo's other appealing features, sometimes. Particularly when you aren't actually a true believer. ‘No, I mean... he’s an icon. Like Elvis. Or Hitler.’

The reporter zeroes in on Grantaire again, clearly hoping for more quotable idiocy, but he gets distracted by his phone before he can compare their fearless leader to any more internationally loathed dictators.

A text from Eponine: _at work. can u pick up gav?_

It doesn’t say from where, but there’s really only one place that Gavroche ever needs “picking up” from.

‘Hey, sorry,’ says Grantaire, shoving his pencils into his bag. ‘I’ve gotta go. But seriously, you’ve been here all afternoon. I don’t know what kind of story you’re working on, but all this “Why do you follow him” stuff isn’t going to get you anywhere. It’s more like -- You know that old saying about how people shouldn’t be afraid of their governments, governments should be afraid of their people?’

'Thomas Jefferson,' she says, nodding.

‘Or V for Vendetta, since we’re in the cheap seats. Well, Enjolras doesn't just talk the talk. The rest of us mere mortals might be shitting our pants over police brutality or whatever, but Enjolras is for real, he doesn't back down. Any government that isn’t afraid of _him_ is too stupid to be in power in the first place.’ There. Maybe some poetic crap will make up for the Hitler comment.

He swings his bag over his shoulder, satisfied to get the last word, for once. On the way to the door, he calls out to Courfeyrac, ‘Gavroche got arrested, I’m going to bail him out.’

‘What, again? Any more good news?’

Grantaire pats him on the shoulder. ‘Ignorance is bliss, Courfeyrac.’

 

* 

 

Grantaire would never be melodramatic enough to claim that he lives a double life, but there is a clear delineation between the time he spends with Les Amis and, well... everything else.

The only crossover point is Eponine, who introduced Grantaire to them in the first place -- more or less. He likes to tell people that it was all an accident, spurred on by idle curiosity, a free afternoon, and Eponine’s ruthless Bambi eyes. An avowed cynic, tripping over and falling into political activism by mistake.

But in reality, Grantaire’s journey into radicalisation begins with a man named Yacine Laigle being shot three times in the chest at close range.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "It is better to be violent, if there is violence in our hearts, than to put on the cloak of nonviolence to cover impotence." - Mahatma Gandhi, _On Non-Violence_.

**April 2011**

He’s known Eponine for a long time. Long enough for him to be realistically cautious when she asks, ‘Are you free tomorrow afternoon?’

‘Depends,’ he says. ‘I may have an important appointment with a bottle of wine.’

‘Funny because it’s true, huh,’ says Eponine, unamused. ‘Well, call your secretary and tell her to rearrange your busy schedule, monsieur. You’re coming to the demo with me. You need to visit the real world every once in a while, even if it’s just for the afternoon.’

‘Demo of what?’

Eponine stares. ‘The demonstration. Protest. For Yacine Laigle.’

‘Is he a politician?’ Eponine is a budding radical, Grantaire knows. She doesn’t talk about it much with him though, because she knows he’s a lost cause. Or at least, he thought she did.

‘Jesus. Don’t you watch the news?’

‘I watch Thundercats,’ says Grantaire. ‘On YouTube.’

‘I can’t even deal with you, sometimes.’ She pulls out her phone, fiddling with it for a moment before shoving it in his face. ‘Here. Yacine Laigle. The cops shot him last week, it’s all anyone’s been talking about.’

Grantaire takes her phone, zooming in on the picture onscreen. It’s a photo, probably cropped from someone’s Facebook page. A guy in his early twenties, brown skin and black hair, grinning over the top of the kind of shisha pipe you find at the pavement cafes in Grantaire’s neighbourhood. He could’ve been Grantaire’s brother, right down to the dark circles under his eyes and the slightly crooked nose. Despite himself, Grantaire is shaken.

‘Yeah,’ Eponine says quietly. ‘That thing you’re feeling right now? It’s called empathy.’

‘What did he do?’

‘What did he _do_? What does anyone do, to deserve getting shot? Nothing. Fucking nothing. They had a three-day inquest into the shooting, and then they closed it. Fucking _closed it_.’ Her eyes blaze. Usually, the only thing that inspires this kind of reaction from Eponine is sleazy guys hitting on her when she and Grantaire are out dancing.

‘So this protest is... what?’ For all his long-held cynicism, he’s curious.

‘We’re going to make sure they know that we’re not going to take it lying down, obviously. Activists. People from the neighbourhood. Students. His friends. As many people as we can get on the streets.’

If this was anyone but Eponine, Grantaire would be cringing. Zealotry is not exactly his thing, even when it's tinged with Eponine's personal brand of anarchist rage. He’s all in favour of recognising that the world is shit, but his second step on that path has always been the zen-like acceptance that you can’t do anything about it. The world _is_ shit, so it’s best to just drink, dance, and try to forget. Honestly, he finds it a little embarrassing when people get all shining-eyed like this.

But along with the obvious fact that he’s never going to make it as an artist, this is one of the main things he tries very hard not to think about. The reminder that for all that he loves Paris, most of the city doesn’t care if he lives or dies. Like when the London Bombings happened, and people stopped sitting next to him on the Metro. Or when his foster parents kicked him out because he bought new sneakers and they assumed he paid for them with drug money. If he got shot tomorrow, only a handful of people would show up at his funeral. But he likes the idea that someone like Eponine might organise a rally in his honor.

Although admittedly, he’d prefer if it was just a street party with a lot of booze and loud, angry music.

‘OK,’ he says, not giving himself any more chance to think it over. ‘OK. I’ll go.’

*

When he meets Eponine at the Metro station, she’s dressed in a long black skirt, black boots, a black jacket and a black scarf.

‘All right, Morticia Addams,’ says Grantaire, eyebrows raised. He wonders if this is some kind of mourning thing, but decides not to ask.

‘You can still go home,’ she says. ‘No one’s making you stick around.’

As if. You don’t say no to Eponine. And besides -- ‘Hey, hey. I want to be here. I’m curious. Even if one more person will probably make fuck-all difference.’

‘That kind of logic is why we have a 50% election turnout in this country.’

Grantaire isn’t even registered to vote. But she’s probably guessed that already.

Walking toward the square, Grantaire can already see the crowd taking shape. There are several thousand people already here, with more wandering in from all directions, police loitering around crash barriers on the peripheries. A few people have signs and placards, but most are just standing around checking their phones, involuntarily swaying in time with the loud and extremely repetitive drum-circle music that’s coming from... somewhere. Not so much a call to arms as a call to lie around in a park somewhere and smoke up. Grantaire feels like it’d be more appropriate for someone to crank up some Rage Against The Machine, but c’est la vie.

‘So. What do we do, now we’re here?’ he asks, following Eponine into the crowd.

‘Walk very slowly along the street until everyone goes home or gets arrested,’ says Eponine drily.

‘And this is going to make a difference to anything… how?’ He doesn’t say this part out loud, but no matter how many people are walking together this afternoon, Yacine Laigle will still be dead tomorrow morning. 

‘It _always_ makes a difference,’ says Eponine. ‘Even if his case stays closed, at least his family will know they’re not alone. The news is already estimating at least twenty thousand people today, and they usually shave a third off the numbers to make us seem less important.’

Grantaire is inclined to believe that this is just Eponine’s paranoia talking. This isn't America; the news doesn't actually _lie_. Still, it’s not difficult to imagine this crowd swelling up to 20 k.

As they walk past a couple of guys dressed in black, Eponine fistbumps one of them and they both grin. Suddenly, Grantaire is reminded of newspaper photos of angry teenagers, black scarves pulled over their faces, setting fire to cars and getting pulped by riot police. He glances sideways at Eponine.

‘You’re not expecting me to throw any bricks through McDonald’s windows, are you?’

‘Do you want to throw bricks at McDonald’s?’ she asks simply.

‘Well, I _am_ more of a late night falafel guy. But I’m not invested enough to take sides in the fast food conflict, no.’

‘Then don’t.’

As they move further into the crowd, Grantaire begins to notice more and more of Eponine’s gothic buddies dotted around the square. A few are even wearing what look like balaclavas, pulled up high over their foreheads so their faces are still visible -- for now.

‘Shit, Eponine. What are you into? Did you take me to a battlefield?’ He’s only partly joking. He gets enough of violent, angry teenagers at his night job as a bouncer, thanks.

‘I’m not here to start shit, Grantaire. But who do you think’s doing the security here?’

He looks around. 'The... cops...'

‘Yeah, genius. I mean, realistically, most of those guys aren’t too bad. But some of them are total assholes. They think we’re all terrorists and immigrants who want to ruin the state of French peace or some shit. I’ve been to things like this where they send in guys in plain clothes to start fights with people in the crowd, so they have an excuse to start making arrests.’

‘Jesus, Eponine. I had no idea you were such a rabble-rouser.’

‘Really?’ she says drily, and he has to laugh. ‘Anyway, it’s not like I’m planning on going out and punching a cop. But half the people here haven’t been to a protest before, some of them are kids... they need someone looking out for them.'

'And that's you?'

'You better believe it. And you need to stop staring at everyone in a black hoodie like they're about to throw a punch, Jesus. Wearing the same outfit just make it harder to tell us apart on CCTV, that's all. A lot of the others are just law students, they hand out instructions on what to do if you get arrested. They call themselves the Peace Police.’

‘Snappy,’ he remarks. ‘Any more sage advice?’

She shrugs. ‘If you hear anyone talking about the police kettling people, just go home. Unless you’re up for being detained in the middle of the street for the next six hours, that is.’

Six hours? ‘What if someone has to piss?’ he wonders out loud. ‘Wait, what if a _girl_ has to piss?’

Eponine grins sharply. ‘That’s why I’m wearing a long skirt,’ she says.

They seem to have reached their destination, people lining up to start marching North towards their destination, the police station near where Yacine was shot. And, God, Eponine's revolutionary fervour must be rubbing off on him. He's thinking of Yacine Laigle by his first name, a guy who he never even met. 

Grantaire’s experience of political protest marches is more or less nonexistent, unless showing up late and drunk to a Pride parade counts. Disappointingly, turns out to be pretty similar to what he’s seen on TV, except less interesting because it’s real life instead of a ten-second clip with a punchy voiceover. Just a lot of people standing around, really. Plus the drummers, who he’s already beginning to find pretty fucking annoying.

‘One question,’ he says. ‘What do all these drummers do, when they’re not Fighting The Man?’

Grudgingly, Eponine looks like she’s trying to hold in a laugh. ‘I’m sure they... Honestly I have no idea.’

‘I mean, can you hire them for weddings? Bar mitzvahs? Because I -- ‘

He’s cut off by screams and whistles, and a cacophony of drumming. For a moment he thinks someone has already managed to start a riot at two o’clock on a Saturday afternoon, but no. They’re just getting ready to move, because somewhere up ahead, the front of the march has started walking. Slowly. So slowly that here near the back, they’re probably going to be standing still for the next five minutes.

‘I already need a drink,’ says Grantaire flatly.

Eponine smirks. ‘Welcome to politics,’ she says.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some political details in this fic will be fictionalised. While most of the issues I plant to include are based on reality, I am skewing things so as to bring this version of France closer to its tipping point. For example, in this chapter Eponine mentions that voter turnout is at 50%, which is a lot lower than in real life.
> 
> P.S. Next chapter: ENJOLRAS! :)

**Author's Note:**

> Follow me on Tumblr at [glitchvoice](http://glitchvoice.tumblr.com/).


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